


Stimulus

by Exxact



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: (light), Belly Kink, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Eadu Era, F/M, Forced Orgasms, Humiliation, Humiliation kink, Implied Voyeurism, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Noncon Creampie, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 23:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: “I have sought to motivate Erso with fresh incentive, though I am tragically unable to remain the supervisor of his improved regime.”Tarkin’s lips contort into a smile above a knowing flash of teeth.“Please, do not hesitate to request my advice on the matter or report on the results of my implementation.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> While Galen does consent to Tarkin's advances, he isn't really in a place to refuse them despite wanting to. I've added a Rape/Noncon warning on this fic to reflect this.

Eadu is as appropriately unpleasant as Tarkin had known it would be, more reminiscent of a detention planet than a hive of prestigious scientific research. His shuttle had landed with enough ease, of course, keeping him from the indignity of a wet uniform while he greeted the base’s assembled team of engineers before quickly extracting Erso. Outside the long transparisteel windows of the private cafeteria, the incessant rain he had managed to avoid pounds an incessant rhythm, perfectly timed to the irritation throbbing against his temple.

 

The core purpose of this inspection is completely distasteful to Tarkin. Erso is, based upon Krennic’s increasingly vague reports, lengthening this work in order to spite his supervisor and former friend, while Krennic is too blinded by his infatuation with the man to instill proper repercussions. Tarkin intends, over the course of this evening, to shatter this dynamic before it can breed even more delays. Though Tarkin’s favored tactic would be lost upon this creature, (who, beyond his spite for Krennic, is without seemingly any other valuable characteristic—ambition, or the capacity to fear his accomplishments stripped from him should he fail in this endeavor), he is nonetheless confident in the success of the method he intends to apply.

 

“The food before us is of the highest standard served on any Tarkin Initiative base, as I’m certain you’re aware,” Tarkin offers as his plate is set before him.

 

“Yes. My team and I are grateful.”

 

Erso reaches for his glass of water, apparently unable to hold civilized conversation beyond the immediate pleasantries Tarkin had offered upon his arrival. His eyes remain fixed upon his lap once he sets it back upon the table, permitting Tarkin’s inspection without the rebuttal of a matched gaze.

 

Rejoining the Empire, no matter the circumstances, suits Erso. He had been far less striking when they had first spoken years ago, as colorless and unremarkable in appearance as his deceased wife. While his too-long hair and the softness of his chin speak to Krennic’s foolish indulgences, they, ironically, only serve to frame the Tarkin Initiative symbol on Erso’s shoulder all the better. His biceps are pronounced, if not thickened by proper muscle tone, his tunic pulling nearly too closely against his torso. There is a crude attractiveness to his body, if not to his broad cheeks and fragile brow, an animal sort of appeal to such simplicity and submissiveness.

 

Tarkin allows the silence between them to build, interrupted only by the steadiness of the rainfall, as constant as a Star Destroyer’s energy hum. When Erso’s eyes finally do flash against Tarkin’s as he reaches for his soup and spoon, he observes again just how pleading they are, dull and damp, unnerving in a man of his age. They nearly lack sentience, similar to the efficient way he works through his plate, reminiscent of a beast of burden feeding at a trough. His entire being is a ploy by Krennic, Tarkin knows, an attempt at making rough material appear far more important than it is. Erso’s knowledge regarding the station’s laser has proven irreplaceable, but its worth is similar to that of one of the countless farming worlds the Empire holds—singular, and, once utilized, best disposed of before it can attempt to evolve past its original purpose.

 

Tarkin shapes his voice into a conversational tone. “Director Krennic was very insistent that this base be provided with solid rations rather than nutrient milk.”

 

“He is an attentive commander,” Erso replies, gratitude absent from the blandness of his voice, contempt for Krennic writ large in the way his expression freezes before settling into impassivity once again, drawing a thin smile to Tarkin’s lips against the cover of his spoon. “A generous one.”

  
  
“You’ve managed under him well thus far,” Tarkin continues with barely the consideration of a pause, applying empty praise that will soothe Erso before hardening his features into disapproval.

 

“His patience, however, wears thin.”

 

Erso appears to shrink inwards, the slope of his back nearly concave in self-protection.

 

“The work is progressing as quickly as is possible,” he mutters, staring intently at Tarkin’s chin despite his panic. “I apologize if I have displeased either of you.”

 

Tarkin allows the fear Erso is nearly tangibly emitting to build further, swallowing the last of his stewed Corellian apples without enjoyment of the dish, but with great relish at Erso’s panic.

 

Tarkin finally permits himself to smile, wetting his lips. “I am not one to doubt the diligence of a man who has proven himself loyal to the greater cause of progressive tactics and the security of the galaxy at large. In truth, I had intended that my visit inspire a similar adoption of faith in your abilities in Director Krennic.”

  
  
Erso’s brow furrows in concentration, attempting to make sense of the apparent neglect Tarkin has paid to his prior defection while simultaneously weighing his fear of Krennic’s retaliation against the protection Tarkin’s favor would provide him.

 

Tarkin pushes forth, smiling through Erso’s silence, ignoring the darting gaze that hovers against his throat.

 

“He has come to abuse your competence and that of the greater Empire to his own selfish ends. A terrible situation for an honest man such as yourself, one who has proven undeserving of such manipulative treatment. You were quite close when I first made both of your acquaintances, as I recall.”

 

“Yes,” Erso nods, his eyes animated with the first emotion Tarkin has seen in them—bitterness. “We have maintained our friendship over the years.”

 

The nuances of a betrayed lover are unmistakeable, even if Erso is too blinded by Tarkin’s favor to realize the implications of his lapse in expression.

 

“I hope that this meeting will serve as the catalyst for a similar shared respect between you and I.”

 

Erso’s posture overcorrects in poorly-concealed relief. His immediate safety secure, his tongue darts between his lips, a strand of hair sweeping boyishly across his forehead. He will hardly be the finest conquest Tarkin has made, though he is not without a certain appeal, a charming timidness that he rarely appreciates in males. He feels his lips twitch at the thought of Krennic sloppily kissing along fingers that shy away from his own, undressing a reticent Erso only to recognize the shape of the mouth that has bruised along his throat.

 

“Yes, Governor. As do I.”

 

Erso rises from the bench, his back rounding into the natural set of a civilian’s. Tarkin imagines baring the roughened skin of it for scrutiny while prodding the tenderness of his belly, can already feel the weight of his ass heavy and warm in his palms.

 

“If we are both finished here, Dr. Erso, perhaps you would care to join me in my quarters for a glass of brandy?” It is a gentleman’s proposition, but a proposition nonetheless.

 

Erso exhales a shallow breath, and Tarkin feels his pulse quicken at the elegant bluntness of the solicitation. The color that slowly rises into Erso’s cheeks is far more pleasant than his feigned uncertainty, surprising Tarkin with the shudder of arousal he feels at the thought of how it must color his cock a similar shade.

 

Erso bites his upper lip, nods his assent, and yet still does not meet Tarkin’s gaze.

 

  
+

Galen does not shudder away from Tarkin’s hand when it finally comes to rest upon his cheek, surprisingly heated despite the temperature of the room and the frigid command of Tarkin’s presence. He drags a smile to his lips, brushes them against the dry blue branches of veins exposed by the cuff of Tarkin’s tunic.

 

There is nothing to do now that Tarkin has initiated this, has set his brow and chosen his course of action. There will be no solitude tonight, no escape within an undemanding bed in the moments before he will watch Lyra will die once again, will scream as Jyn is slaughtered and desecrated, will gasp and writhe as Krennic takes what has not been given freely in decades.

 

There is nothing to do now, he knows, except to endure for the sake of those he cannot bear to think about while Tarkin’s mouth is upon his.

 

“Do not be frightened, now,” Tarkin murmurs, slowly pressing a kiss to his chin as though allowing Galen a moment to consider his proposition further.

 

Galen drops his eyes, unable to respond properly with any sort of gasp or moan. His reluctance only seems to excite Tarkin further, similar to the way his terse words at dinner had apparently served to make Tarkin amenable to the idea of climbing into bed with his rival’s prize.

 

Tarkin’s thumb comes to draw Galen’s face upwards as though he were reprimanding a child. “You’ll do well by my hand, Dr. Erso.”

 

Tarkin’s grip is sharp despite the bluntness of his nails, digging into the cleft of Galen’s chin. This is the man that Orson strives to be, loathe as he is to admit admiration for the man he views as the only barrier to his glory. It stands that the man Krennic has designed for his bed will do well enough for Tarkin, and so Galen must let go of his hesitation, appeal to all the senses that drive Orson to his quickest releases.

 

A series of bruises sucked in a trail down his neck reminds Galen to whimper his pleasure, his thighs clenching involuntarily beneath Tarkin’s grasp when they cup his still-soft cock.

 

“Please,” he forces a chuckle through gritted teeth, eyes downcast once more. “Call me Galen.”

 

Tarkin’s lips quiver as he draws back from Galen’s clavicle, unsnapping his outer tunic and the rough cream lining, his eyes sharp with satisfaction. It is as though his now-evident lack of pleasure in the act were an even richer aphrodisiac than his hesitation, he thinks with distant horror.

 

“A fine name for a fine figure,” Tarkin replies without sincerity, his fingertips hot against Galen’s hips, an unrelenting pressure building while Tarkin’s eyes rake across his exposed torso. Orson has never looked at him so, he thinks with a flush of panic. Under his hands, Galen is always fully desired, if unwillingly. Tarkin’s cycling apathy is a fresh danger, one Galen realizes that he has not expected.

 

Finally, Tarkin withdraws his grip, pats the soft center of Galen’s belly with a haughty smirk.

 

“Yes, finely kept indeed,” Tarkin’s voice is low, nearly conspiratorial. He seats himself in the forgotten chair beside the decanter of brandy, choosing to pinch at Galen’s nipples just as roughly as he’d held his hips.

 

Tarkin appears pleased enough by Galen’s responding shiver, a growl thrumming within his own chest while he continues to tease his fingers against Galen’s. He must be unaccustomed to the sensation of flesh between them, Galen thinks absentmindedly, allowing again for Tarkin’s other hand to stroke his cheek while he is prodded at. He’d been surprised by how ambitiously Tarkin had eaten at dinner, his appetite surprisingly rigorous for such a gaunt man. Perhaps, like Galen himself, he is curious about the lines and weight of a body both familiar and foreign in anatomy, interested in the juxtaposition of their forms against one another.

 

Perhaps his fear of the consequences of failing to please Tarkin is unfounded.

 

Galen kisses Tarkin urgently to quiet any further uncertainty he feels, determined now to finish this encounter as impersonally as he can manage to hide. He kneels, letting himself look upon the thin brows and drawn lines of Tarkin’s face, the hair that laps softly against his neck. He thinks of Orson’s insistent fingers against his scalp, his demand for marks that would chafe along the tender skin of his thighs. Tarkin would not like the rough treatment Krennic often craves from him, he decides, choosing instead to bow his head into the touch.

 

Galen suppresses a sigh, swallowing it into a a moan. “Please, Sir. Let me lick you. Suck you,” he says, biting his lip until Tarkin undoes his trousers and presents him with his cock. “You’re so big,” he adds half-heartedly, successfully keeping his eyes upon Tarkin’s as he begins to take him into his mouth.

 

“Enough of this,” Tarkin hisses, gripping Galen’s throat with a frightful strength. He drags Galen away from his cock, withdrawing the hand that had continued to stroke his pectorals and fitting it against his own chin. Galen feels a shock of fear at the volatility hot in the set of Tarkin’s mouth, overwhelming him in the interminable moments before Tarkin speaks again.

 

“You will prepare yourself and sit astride me,” Tarkin orders, removing his own tunic as he rises and walks to sit upon the edge of the bed. “Surely, you are acquainted with the act.”

 

The weight of what Galen has failed to do settles upon him as he strips fully, shuddering at the consequences Orson would impose in such a situation. He struggles not to think of his violent demands, of the crude pictures painted of Lyra that goad him into a rage that Orson can turn into a desire to fuck the words from his mouth. Instead, he rests himself awkwardly against the chair, his eyes tightly shut once he’s slicked his fingers with lubricant. He hears the rustle and pull of Tarkin undressing himself while he does so, the thump of the laundry chute, the mundane sounds easing his mind into allowing his body to work itself open upon his fingers.

 

“Still _unenthused_.”

 

Tarkin’s voice cuts through Galen’s mind just as he has nearly deemed himself ready. He smiles at Galen’s silence, at the dull anger which which he now stares at Tarkin, naked and draped along the bed. “A pity that you lack both sensuality and physical appeal.”

 

Galen walks forward, fixing his gaze upon Tarkin’s chest, ignoring his cruelty and the responding twitch of his cock. It is larger than Orson’s, he thinks with a shred of humor. How fixated he would become on such an arbitrary fact if Galen were to ever mention it.

 

There is a power to Tarkin’s build, a weightiness beneath his sinew and muscle that Galen does not fear crushing beneath him as he does when Orson chooses to take him this way. He lines his ass up as best he can to Tarkin’s erection, his body hovering over it with a last quiver of resistance.

 

“Don’t fret, now. You’ll feel pleasure under my hand, boy,” Tarkin growls, his cheeks flushed with a color that does not soften their hollowness. “Unwillingly, perhaps, though such is the plight of those who whore themselves indiscriminately and find themselves caught.”

 

Galen gasps, his belly tightening in pleasure against the heat of Tarkin’s voice, the violent press of fingers against his hips once again as he’s roughly fitted down upon his cock. He feels himself seize in shock and he winces openly, unwilling to hide the discomfort Tarkin’s greed is causing him. He does not think to move, and his negligence is greeted with the sting of Tarkin’s left hand against his ass.

 

“Ah, and so Krennic has allowed you to grow fat and negligent in many regards.” Tarkin’s voice is rich with an amusement that sickens Galen. “You’ll receive no such indulgence from me.”

 

Galen grits his teeth against a yelp. He rises quickly, pressing against the crown of Tarkin’s cock before Tarkin slams him downwards. The pain within him is excruciating, and yet there is a primal, newly-minted pleasure to this brutality. Galen feels himself grow fully hard by the tenth time he’s thrust himself downwards, the mix of sudden exertion and the fullness within him stimulating him despite the tears that cloud his focus on the grey wall above Tarkin’s head.

 

“A fast little learner,” Tarkin pants, ignoring Galen’s swollen cock. “Perhaps there is some value to you after all.”

 

Galen’s release is brief yet brilliant, nearly resulting in him falling forward once it passes, just as Orson’s often does. He remains astride Tarkin instead, watching blankly as he continues to fuck into him, unconcerned with Galen’s growing overstimulation. He studies the smear of his release in the hair along Tarkin’s belly, wondering with a shock of fear if he’s committed a far greater crime in doing such than in his apathy.

 

“Move, boy. You’re far more tolerable in your effort.”

 

Galen jerks himself upwards, forced back into a mimicry of his previous rhythm before the sting of Tarkin’s intrusion can set in fully, the laxness in his body doing little to make the stretch any less searing.

 

Tarkin’s movements grow sharp, his thrusts shortening. Galen belatedly remembers a warning, cautionary tales from the Academy that he’s never had cause to consider before when Orson and Lyra had been his only bedmates.

 

“Don’t…not in me.”

 

Galen’s order is laughable to his own ears, muttered without any authority, and Tarkin’s only response is a grunt, a sound as unexpectedly animalistic as the treatment he’s received tonight. He releases into Galen as he does so, thick and hot and unpleasant.

 

“Remain here,” Tarkin’s eyes are alert, seeming to mock Galen’s attempt at a command. “I may take you again in the morning.”

 

Galen cannot find the strength of will or hatred needed to disobey, to limp back to his own room and stave off the sleep that will only drive this ugliness deeper into his thoughts. Instead, he allows his mind to fade into the momentary quiet, ignoring the humiliating ache within him and the heat of Tarkin’s body that does not curl against his own.

 

 

+

Tarkin has timed his departure perfectly, arriving in the docking bay just as the door of Krennic’s shuttle unseals itself. He waits until the proper tableau of Death Troopers is settled around them before addressing him, absorbing the fear that Krennic is too stunned to conceal.

 

“Director Krennic,” he says lightly, pausing in triumph. “I have already issued you a recording of my official analysis of the project. Such a pity that the opening in my schedule was too narrow to grant you prior notice of my arrival.”

 

Krennic’s eyes flicker momentarily towards the corridor that leads to Erso’s quarters. “I anticipate your observations with great pleasure.”

 

Tarkin allows his eyes to narrow against Krennic’s before boarding his own shuttle. Whether he intends to communicate his disapproval for the mechanically practiced motions of Erso’s mouth or the fury that colors Krennic’s temples, he cannot say.

 

The shudder of the miserable planet’s atmosphere quickly gives way to the blur of hyperspace. The interlude allows Tarkin to review the evidence he has provided of Erso’s betrayal, recorded in the unsure dawn of his quarters moments before his departure.

 

_“Over the course of my brief inspection, I have found Dr. Erso to be industrious, if unenthusiastic. Should you continue to fail to provide him with proper stimulation, I have no doubt that such impassivity will continue, breeding disaster for this project as a whole.”_

 

_There is a gentle huff of breath from beyond the view of the projection, accompanied shortly by the rustle of a body content in bed._

 

_“I have sought to motivate Erso with fresh incentive, though I am tragically unable to remain the supervisor of his improved regime.”_

 

_Tarkin’s lips contort into a smile above a knowing flash of teeth._

 

_“Please, do not hesitate to request my advice on the matter or report on the results of my implementation.”_

 

 


End file.
